


Paranormal Activity

by Ayngelcat



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:03:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayngelcat/pseuds/Ayngelcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for tf_speedwriting:</p><p>Prompt: "There's something out there ...."<br/>Universe: G1<br/>Warnings: mention of unknown dead mechs. Otherwise, none.<br/>Characters: Prowl, Huffer, Brawn, Gears, Cliffjumper.<br/>Content summary: Prowl investigates a strange happening in the wee hours. Distraught Huffer, officious Prowl, and spooky times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_From the journal of Prowl, law enforcement officer and second in command, Autobot Earth Contingent, Earth Year 1984._  
  
At precisely 3.47 am I came online, awakened by a most appalling sound, a kind of howling which I have to say chilled my circuits to the very core. Of course, my first thought was of Decepticons, so I armed myself adequately. Then I made my way immediately in the direction of the source of the sound which, rather surprisingly, turned out to be the minibot quarters.  
  
But I need not have bothered with weapons. For soon it was reported that not a single breach of security had occurred, and there were no Decepticon signatures within the Ark or its proximal surroundings. The Autobots were, however, anxious to learn the reason for the screams, which I also now determined had come from Huffer.   
  
The latter being a nervous mech, and given to both fanciful and negative thought processes, I had little doubt he had suffered an offline terror, or some such similar. I imagined also, that neither he nor his colleagues would take kindly to half the Ark converging and asking questions. I therefore informed Optimus Prime that I would deal with this matter myself, a course which he agreed was a wise one and in so doing, ordered all other Autobots return to their quarters.   
  
I found the subject Huffer to be quite inconsolable. He clung to the end of his berth, resisting all Brawn’s attempts to pry him free, and ignoring Cliffjumper’s repeated angry reproaches that there were ‘no fragging cons’ - something about which necessitated a reminder that an officer was present. This effectively silenced Cliffjumper; however, his admonitions were replaced almost immediately by those of Gears, who – as one might imagine – was less than impressed by Huffer's behavior.  
  
All the while, Huffer repeated the same words again and again: “There’s something out there!”   
  
It was obvious that the minibots would not be successful in progressing any interrogation, so I bid them stand back whilst I approached their stricken colleague.  
  
“Look at me, Huffer!” I said. “That is an order.”   
  
Obviously the fear of consequences outweighed the terror of whatever it was, for he stopped his gibbering and looked at me. I had quite a surprise. For his face was drawn and strained, his optics deep chasms of blue terror. I have seen many fearful mechs in my time. War and death of necessity make deep fear an everyday encounter. Yet, I can honestly say that, in all the vorns rarely have I seen quite such a look as this.  
  
I decided that pragmatic straightforwardness was for the best. “ _What_ is 'out there' Huffer?” I said. When he was silent, I reminded him of his duty as a member of this contingent to report all suspicions and findings, or face charges of withholding information. At which point, he opened his mouth and uttered in a shaky voice. “I think it’s them.”  
  
“Who?” I enquired.  
  
It took him a moment to answer, during which time I was conscious of the exasperated sighs of the other minibots, so much so that I had to bid them be quiet again or I would find means to charge the lot of them. Then I turned my attention back to Huffer.   
  
“Who are _they?”_ I asked.  
  
It took him a moment to answer. “The other Bots,” he said. “The ones you can’t see.”  
  
At this point, the other minibots could contain themselves no longer, and groans sounded from their midst. “Not this again!” Cliffjumper burst out. “He thinks there’s ghosts, you see. The ones who didn’t make it through the crash. He thinks they’re still hanging around the Ark, waiting to see whether we get back to Cybertron or the Cons slag us to a pulp.”  
  
I had to speak to Cliffjumper again about his language, for which this time Brawn apologized and Gears removed him from the room.  
  
I knelt down next to Huffer again. “Is this the case?” I asked. He nodded, and now he would not look at me, and he was shaking. Brawn apologized again, but I motioned to him to be quiet.  
  
“Now listen to me, Huffer!” I said. “There are no ghosts, and proving this will be a simple matter. We will examine all available footage of the Ark from Red Alert’s cameras taken in the last twenty four hours. As you know, the cameras cover a very large spectrum and show things beyond our own range – even Mirage under electro disruption. If there is anything out of the ordinary, it will be dealt with in the usual manner.”  
  
Brawn appeared pleased by this, but Huffer stared at me again, and I was dismayed to see that the terrified look had intensified. I refused to be deterred, however. “Now come on,” I said. “I know this will make you feel better. In fact I’ll put in a call to Red Alert right now.”  
  
But before I could action this intention, his hand shot out and grabbed my arm, forcefully enough to cause a slight dint. Very slowly he spoke. “Believe me,” he said. _“You don’t want to look at that footage.”_  
  
I thought it best at that point that Huffer be transferred to the infirmary for a full defragmentation, which he is currently undergoing. This was a preferable course to considering a charge of assault, which I would have been duty bound to do, unappealing though this was. Considering his tendencies hitherto, defragmentation is, in any event, a procedure which should have been performed some time ago.  
  
In the meantime I am informed by Red Alert that the footage is ready, and we will meet this morning when he will provide an overview of the contents. After that I can allay Huffer’s fears and hopefully the minibot contingent can return to normal functioning.  
  
(Postscript: LITTLE DID PROWL KNOW .....)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, another chapter was wanted, so here one is! And this was WAY longer than I intended, but I did have fun writing it.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Warnings are only for horror and spooky type material, grumpy Ratchet, and a little Prowl/Jazz fluff.

Today has so far been a strange, but not fruitless day. I shall recount its content, notwithstanding that I have come to a conclusion which clearly eliminates any kind of ‘paranormal activity’ as I have decided to term it, and that some of my reactions were, regrettably, less than might have been expected by one gifted in logic. Recording them will, I believe, prove useful in that they may assist a recurrence of reactive, uncontrolled behaviour.

I came online having recharged poorly since seeing Huffer to the medbay, my processor in hibernation status filled with strange images. I recall many absurd phenomena, among them creatures with multiple faces and tentacles, and a planet which turned into a giant mech and ate other planets.

As I say – absurd. And obviously a product of my heavy recent schedule. Troubling, nonetheless - and I admit to being upon waking rather sorry Jazz was not here to provide his usual soothing solutions. Alas he was, at that time, still with Mirage hunting Insecticons, a pursuit of which I had dubious hopes, and hardly filled me with glee - for other reasons. But Optimus Prime considered it of value, so I must not speak of it adversely.   




Jazz has now returned. As expected, the hunt was fruitless. I will speak with him soon, and perhaps recount the offline visions whilst his skilful hands are on my plating, when we have attended to more urgent business. At least these offline oddities have nothing to do with ‘ghosts.’

To return to the main event, however: At precisely 7.43 am, I presented in Red Alert’s office to view the footage. I was rather surprised to see Ratchet there as well. When I asked why, he informed me that when he had opened the medbay to admit Huffer, he had found things to be less than satisfactory.

He had recorded some images. They showed items out of place, a trolley overturned, a cupboard open and several bottles smashed on the floor. Of particular grief was a picture -one which he valued, being of his graduation class at the Iacon College of Medicine -  which had fallen from the wall and was shattered irreparably.

Ratchet was, as you can imagine, less than impressed. “I’m here because I’m gonna find out who thought it was ‘cool’ to get in there and frag things up,” he declared. ”And when I find out, somebody is gonna be doin’ a stint in the brig.”

Having studied the images, I agreed this was appropriate, hoping that neither Sideswipe nor Sunstreaker was responsible because to imprison them again would be rather a depressing exercise. I added that we were keen to observe anything out of the ordinary which might explain Huffer’s distress.

Ratchet snorted. “Nothin’ wrong with that mech that some proper action won’t fix,” he said. “His problem is, he’s too introspective. Having Gears’ voice in his audio don’t help. You ask me, you wanna get him away from those minibots and where he can prove himself – you know – make him step up to the mark.” I made note of this option, and determined I would speak to Optimus Prime.

I had some concerns about Huffer being left unattended in the medbay. “Oh he ain’t,” Ratchet assured me. “I left Smokescreen there t’watch him – on strict instructions, mind, that he don’t touch _nothin.’”_

Looking at the live CTV footage, I saw my Datsun cousin slouched in a chair over a datapad. It dismayed but did not surprise me to observe that he looked hungover. I confess to some disappointment. There were, in my opinion, better choices of mech. But being keen to get on with our task, I had no wish to raise this with Ratchet.

In any case, Huffer appeared to be offline, his expression peaceful. I trusted that his condition was sufficiently stable not to warrant my cousin’s attentions.

At that point, Red Alert came in. He looked anxious, as is frequently the case, so I sought to put him at ease.

“Well Red Alert,” I said. “Let us not waste time observing footage of silent night-time places in the Ark. Maybe you can inform us of your findings now, and if other than the mess Ratchet has described there is nothing untoward, I can make the necessary arrests. Then we can reassure Huffer and all get on with our day.”

I was certain we could soon clear up that matter, if nothing else.

Red Alert looked uncomfortable. “Yeah, we can look at – er – what caused that,” he said, and I could tell he was not happy. “There’s a few other – er– things which are a bit odd. I think you should look at those too.”

At this point, Ratchet snorted. “I can’t sit around here all day!” he barked. “I got a clinic this morning. It ain’t exactly gonna be a _hard_ , is it? We just look at the cog strippin’ tape!”

“All right,” Red Alert said, glancing at me nervously. “We can start with medbay. But I think we should watch the footage from when you departed last night. After you patched Bluestreak up at approximately 9pm. It was afterward that things – started. I’ve saved the bits which are of – interest.”

Ratchet shrugged. I must admit I felt some dismay. Red Alert is, after all, another highly strung mech also given to imaginings, and I wondered then if my judgement had been a good one, if he was really the right mech for this task.

Before we began, I glanced at Huffer again, and noted that he was still offline, and had not moved. I noted that Smokescreen appeared to have dropped offline also, which disappointed me further. No doubt this was a result of his indulgences. His state did not appear to perturb Ratchet, however, so once again I left my thoughts unsaid.

Meanwhile, Red had started the earlier medbay footage.

…………………………..

There are four cameras in medbay. One shows the entrance. Another shows the waiting area. Then a third covers the emergency berth and resuscitation machines. A final camera pans the main ward, crossing each berth in turn, including the berth to which Huffer was later admitted. There is an additional camera located outside the entrance, so Red can activate the doorlock mechanism in the event of unwelcome visitor.

“We will start with the entrance.” Red Alert said, now warming to his subject. “The outside view.”  

At first, there was nothing untoward. The clock showed the time to be 11.43 pm. The corridor was empty, light from the neon strip reflecting off the orange walls.

At 11.44 pm the light flickered slightly. And then, rather strangely, the medbay door opened. It remained open for an interval, one which would, perhaps, have allowed at least one mech to pass through – except that none did. There was nobody to be seen. The door closed again.

Red Alert ran the footage quickly forward, showing us that the same incident occurred again at 01.12 am, and then at precisely 02.34 am, about half an hour before Huffer was admitted. He then showed us the view from the inside camera which showed, as with the other, the door opening but no other visible activity.

Ratchet looked annoyed. “I thought when medbay was empty the lock mechanism was on!” he barked.

“It was,” Red Alert said.

“Rubbish!” Ratchet retorted. “Rewind the tape!” Red Alert did so.

Ratchet squinted at the footage. “Stop it there! Look at that!” he declared. “The entry button gets pushed!” His demeanour darkened. “Like somebody pushed it. How they gonna do that if its locked?”

“I don’t know!” Red Alert said. There was a slight edge of despair to his voice, and this I did not want, it being important that we completed this exercise.

“I’m sure there is a logical explanation,” I said.

But on closer examination, there was no doubt that Ratchet’s observation was correct. It was as though an invisible finger depressed the device. Ratchet looked so angry then that I feared he might hit Red Alert. “I know what this is!” he roared. “A combination of ineptitude, and Mirage up to his tricks!”  

Red Alert winced, his optics burning blue and hurt, and it was necessary at that point for me to counsel Ratchet that we should not be jumping to conclusions until all the evidence had been placed before us. I also explained that these surveillance systems would reveal electro disrupted images, and that I knew for a fact that Mirage was absent at the time, being on the aforementioned Insecticon hunt.

Ratchet reluctantly agreed, and Red Alert looked relieved. Nevertheless, I felt nervous. I had other fears. Was it not beyond the bounds of possibility that the Decepticons had invented electro disruption that went _beyond_ the spectrum of these cameras? They had the Reflector triplets with them, and more recently the Constructicons, who are formidable technicians.  I noted this concern.

But why would the Decepticons go into the medbay? Why not the armoury, or the control room? I determined then that a full investigation of all motives and possibilities among our own team as well as our enemies would be required, as well as a thorough examination of all important places on the Ark.

There was, of course, another possibility. A much more plausible one. “It could be an electrical malfunction,” I said. “Perhaps I will get Wheeljack to take a look.”

Ratchet looked less than reassured, which perhaps, given certain Wheeljack related incidents since our arrival was somewhat understandable.  But Red Alert looked relieved. “That is my own explanation,” he said. “For the doors. However – look at this.”

We were now viewing the empty chairs in the waiting room. The time showed as 11.50pm – which was just after the first door opening incident. At first, nothing untoward occurred, and then the lights flickered. At the same time it seemed as though one of the chairs moved, without propulsion form any visible entity, and then just for an astrosecond, a dark, column like shape appeared in the centre of the room.

It was there - and then gone. It was formless, yet seemed seemed - mechanoid. But its exact nature was not ascertainable, owing to the behaviour of the lights.

A pall of silence fell.  I felt an eerie coldness go through my circuits, even though my logic circuits sensibly informed me that the illusion was clearly explicable, a mere trick of the light. Ratchet frowned. “Maybe you oughtta speak to Wheeljack,” he said. He sounded less certain than before.

I confess to, at that point, a growing unease. It was not all to do with my previous theory. There was something in the nature of that shadow, that _darkness,_ which was – disquieting. I cannot say more.

I should, I knew, ask for a replay of the footage. Yet I resisted strongly the notion of seeing it again. In any case, the footage was still running. Red Alert had not altered the sequence, and I saw that we were still observing the waiting room, the empty chairs.

There were no more shapes or shadows.

Red Alert now seemed filled with nervous excitement. I could hear his intakes coming in short rasps. “There!” he said. “Did you see that?”

Ratchet scowled. He and I glanced at each other. “See what?” we both asked.

Red Alert paused the tape. Then he rewound it. When he started it again, he had magnified a portion of the wall, underneath the graduation picture, still intact at that point in time. “There!” he said.

Ratchet and I leaned forward. And then, a visible shudder went through my colleague, and I have to say that I was not immune to the same. For on the wall beneath the picture there appeared, unmistakeably, the outline of a handprint. It was there – most certainly there. And then it – faded. As though swept away by an invisible cloth.

Again, that unspeakable chill swept through me. In the distance, I heard thunder rumble and my optic caught an outside monitor which showed rain beginning to fall outside the Ark. A darkness hung over the entrance. I shivered.

I thought of Jazz, and wished very much that he had taken my counsel regarding the Insecticons, and was not unwisely pursuing them, but was here with us instead. Certainly neither the weather nor his absence did anything to alleviate the tension in the room, or make this whole now unhappy experience less so.

Nevertheless I fixated back on the footage, providing firm autonomous commands to my processor to be unreactive, and to see the storm as helpful, given that the static which precedes the same is well known to cause many a reaction in machinery, both inert and animate. Indeed, even as I thought this the lights flickered as more thunder found its way to our audios.

We were still looking at the waiting room. It was only seconds later that the lights on the footage flickered also; and then – even though I knew it was coming - my spark spasmed sharply as the picture crashed from the wall.

I could not shake that sickening chill. As with the doors, there was no obvious cause. Logic, that intangible friend, reminded me that the Ark is in a volcano, and that maybe seismic echoes have made its foundations unstable, and that all we had observed was due to this. Logic failed.

For try as I might, I could not pretend that the picture had merely ‘fallen.’ It was as though it was _plucked_ from the wall, and hurled into the air. It even _hovered_ for one, two – maybe three astroseconds, before smashing and disintegrating into the ruined state in which Ratchet later found it.

Now even Ratchet appeared shaken. “Well I’ll be darned!” he muttered.

We were quiet again, whilst the footage ran on, showing nothing further untoward. I took a firm grip on myself, forcing away waves of fear, refusing to be conquered.

I succeeded. In fact, I began to feel some vestiges of relief. The lights had been most erratic. The possibility of a person or persons skulking out of camera could not be ruled out. Besides, there is nothing like hard evidence. And the handprint, I was convinced, contained the key to the mysteries. “Go back!” I said to Red Alert. “To the print.”

When it was once more on the wall, I had Red Alert enlarge it. I examined it more closely. The hand which had left it was not small, and the fingers were long and spidery.

Ratchet’s unease had turned back to fury. “Whatever darned thing’s on that tape, its obvious the owner of that hand had somethin’ to do with it!” he roared. “And when I catch them, they’re history. This time, if it’s who I think it is, they’re gonna have their insignia stripped!”

It dismayed me that Ratchet would conclude so easily that a member of our own team were responsible. For what had first occurred to me was that it was not like an Autobot hand, but that the appendages were more characteristic of – a Decepticon.

“Let’s not be too quick to jump to conclusions,” I said, considering my previous theory. “I suggest that a full analysis of that print will soon reveal the identity of the culprit. In the meantime, Ratchet, I would be obliged if you could check once again whether anything – anything at all – was taken from the medbay.”

For now, a motive occurred. What could be more devious or Decepticon-like than to procure a mech or mechs gifted in stealth to steal secrets from our medic? An ascertainment of the medical weaknesses of our own mechs could undoubtedly provide an unquestionable advantage in battle.

And was not the Constructicon Hook well known to detest Ratchet and his achievements? The broken picture was consistent with this. And possibly even a warning.

Ratchet evidently had not considered it. Nor was I about to mention his arch rival, as the expletives that would have issued forth would have been less than helpful. He grunted. “I already told yer, nothin’ was gone, as far as I could tell!” he seemed set upon the idea of saboteurs from our own ranks.

“Can we move on?” he snapped. “It’s raining outside. I wanna see who did the damage  before some fool slips and limps in with a dislocated somethin’ or other.”

“Indeed, let’s move on!” I said crisply, a tad annoyed. I was keen now to prove this new theory of mine, even though a warning flashed to defy me. _Abandon analysis_ , it suggested. _Likelihood of causation theorised_ : _less than twenty per cent_.

I refused to accept this. It has been my experience, through the eons of investigations, that unlikely hunches often prove correct – or at the least point in the right direction. Jazz, with his gifted abilities, has wondered at how I might do this, so at odds is it with my ordinary functioning. Yet he has not questioned the myriad of sound results. Warnings are often best ignored.

As Red changed the footage, there was more thunder. The outside cameras showed rain to be falling heavily now, a grey pall obscuring the view. My spark did another take. Just for an instant, it looked as though a shadowy figure slid from the Ark and into the gloom. I strained my optics but could see nothing – and then, yes, there were two more distinct figures approaching: Jazz and Mirage. Soaked but safe, they were definitely un-dislocated.

The relief I felt is hard to describe. It was far more than normally I would feel in the circumstances. And – mercifully - the warmth which always floods my spark at Jazz’s presence did much to counteract the previous effects, to banish fears and phantasms, and to concentrate on what was emerging as a very plausible theory indeed.

Nevertheless, a heaviness still seemed to hang in the room, like an oppressive blanket. Now, we were looking at the ward. The silence was punctuated only by our intakes, as each berth in turn came slowly into view.

The time was recorded as 12.55 am. I much wanted to see this now. My theory could even - somehow - be proved!

And yet, I confess, I could hardly bring myself to look. It was absurd, but as the camera’s passage progressed, I dreaded what would come next. It seemed every object was about to move unaided, every shadow was _that shape_ manifesting. Another handprint seemed depressingly imminent – or worse still, its owner sweeping suddenly and horribly into view.

Ratchet, deathly quiet, appeared transfixed by the screen, Red Alert shifted anxiously. “We are just coming up to the relevant part now,” he said.

The camera had reached nearly the end of the berth row, where it would pause, and then return in the direction of the entrance. Just as the last berth came into view, the room seemed to – shudder, the image blurring. For brief interlude it was hard to make out anything, except that a cupboard door swung open, suddenly, and objects tumbled out.

But the camera swept on. It reached the end of the ward and there was the trolley overturned, its wheels turning idly. The culprit, however, had evidently scarpered just in time to evade detection.  

If they were visible, that is. Which I now do not believe to be the case.

Ratchet was furious again. “Wind it forward!” he roared. “Ain’t gonna catch nobody looking at a patch of empty wall are we!” But this Red Alert did not need to do; for the camera was already sweeping back.

And there was the rest of the damage, the contents of the cupboard strewn extracted, a mass of broken glass and liquids littering the floor, but again, no mech.

Was I relieved at this point that we had not seen one? Of course. It supported my Decepticon electro disruption theory. Or that is what I most stringently chose to believe.

Ratchet could contain himself no longer. “Is that the best you can do?” he bawled.

Red Alert could not either. “I’ve just been doing my job!” he yelled.

Realizing the necessity to resolve this situation before anything else could even be considered, I held up a hand. “Evidently, the culprit departed,” I said. “That would explain the subsequent opening of the door. But we have, I believe, sufficient evidence to resolve this matter. The finer points can be addressed later.”

There would, I was now certain, be signature residue which corresponded to the print. And, I recalled, the door had opened a third time - at 2.34, sometime after the damage occurred. It was even _possible_ that the intruder was still in medbay. But I thought it best not to say this. The more low key things stayed, the better the chance of apprehension. “I am confident I can clear the matter up!” I simply said.  

Red Alert was scowling, but Ratchet had calmed down. He was staring at the footage, the camera still panning the ward. A strange look had come about one which in all our long acquaintance I cannot recall ever seeing. “I ain’t so sure that you can,” he muttered.

I turned to see what he was looking at. Icy tentacles closed around my spark.

The camera was traversing the berth to which Huffer was later admitted. There was something _not right_ about it. That is all I can say. It seemed that a  darkness hung, formless, but of the same nature as had been in the waiting room.

That darkness. It was more than that. Like – a nothingness. Of all that we saw today and despite that I now have a sound theory, that berth, and the bleak despair which invaded by very being, still perturbs me the most.

But before we could pursue things further, Red Alert gave a cry. For activity had erupted on the live observation screen.

………………………….

And there was Huffer, fully online, and seated bolt upright. He seemed to be having a seizure of sorts. His body was rigid, shaking, his hands held up before him as though fending off an attacker. His face was a terrified mask. His optics stared with the same incalculable horror that I had seen only hours earlier.

His mouth uttered words. “Don’t kill me!” he was saying, again and again.

The horror in my spark was worse than anything I had thus far experienced. And whilst I should have been galvanized into action, instead I simply stared.

But Ratchet was on his feet. “Gotta get down there!”

Pragmatism, and the need to respond to the emergency, mercifully overrode my reactions. I looked for Smokescreen. He was nowhere to be seen.

“Smokescreen!” I shouted into his com.

He came into view, “I was getting a drink …” he began. But then he spotted Huffer – and to give him his dues, he went straight away to his aid, and tried to calm him. “Hey, buddy, it’s OK, ain’t nobody here but us …” he started to croon.

But Huffer was having none of it. He flailed his arms, and Smokescreen had to dodge the blows. And then, he froze. His mouth opened in a silent, wrenching scream.

“Pan right, Red Alert!” I _had_ to see what Huffer was seeing. Could our culprit be right there? Why did I dread looking?

Red Alert manipulated the keyboard and the image swung to show – as I knew it would - nothing.

“Lock the doors!” I said to Red.

“They’re locked!”

“Smokescreen,” I said.  “Ratchet will be there any moment. Arm your canons. And conduct a signature search. But do not leave Huffer.”

He gaped at me. “Why? There’s nobody here.”

“Swing back!” I cried, ignoring my cousin’s belligerence. The camera swung back, and I saw that Huffer had collapsed back on the berth, his intakes heaving. His face was taught, his optics tightly shuttered. Over his head there seemed to be a – luminosity.

Greenish it was, and glowing softly. In retrospect, the thing most likely in all of today to be a light trick. It should not have disturbed me at all. Yet, after everything else, it turned my circuitry to goo, made me want to dissolve into a gibbering mass on the floor.

“Smokescreen, what is on his helm?” I gasped, hearing my voice weak and shaky, as though it were not mine.

My cousin looked surprised. “What?” he said. The moment passed. Huffer moved and the strange light vanished. Relief flooded my spark at this confirmation that it must have been the camera.

Huffer now looked to be in ‘normal’ recharge. I regret to say that Smokescreen appeared to find the situation humorous. “Hey - the way he was - is that freaky or what?” he said. Such is the effect of regular high grade saturation. Mechs do not take things seriously. I stand by my opinion that it is most undesirable. “Check his vital signs!” I snapped.

But at that moment Ratchet burst in, accompanied by Brawn, who I recalled had just finished morning patrol. Smokescreen was swiftly moved aside whilst Huffer was connected to the monitors. Between the mechs I saw his optics unshutter, and it was clear he murmured something. It looked like “No, no, no.”

Smokescreen was looking sheepish. “Can I go now?” he asked.

“You may not!” I said, extremely annoyed. “You are to follow my orders - arm your weapons, and conduct a signature sweep. Any Decepticons and you hold them at bay and keep them away from Huffer. I am on my way!”

I did not wait for his response, which undoubtedly would have been impertinent. I turned to Red Alert, who looked unhappy again. “Ratchet just barged in there, and this time I _know_ the door was locked,” he cried.

It seemed, unfortunately, only too likely that the intruder, who evidently had managed to unlock the door before, was no longer in medbay. “Never mind that, lock it now,” I said. “Admit only me when you see me at the entrance. Then I suggest you raise a general security alert and lockdown the Ark. We will resume this exercise when this matter has been attended to.”

“But that’s only for when there’s a Decepticon breach!” he said. “Prime said never to use it lightly!”

“Precisely!” I agreed. Then I left him and hurried out, relieved to hear the alarm sound moments later, and a number of Autobots appear with weapons drawn as they commenced the sweep procedure.

At the end of the corridor Ironhide appeared, barking out orders. The sight was reassuring, a much needed calm to my uncomfortably disarrayed sensory systems.

…………………..

When I arrived at the medbay, Huffer was indeed peacefully in recharge, oblivious to the industry outside. Ratchet was examining data. He now looked drained and exhausted. Brawn stood by with his arms folded. Then Smokescreen came in, informing me of what I already knew - that no signatures had been detected anywhere in medbay.

I was confident that this was so. However questionable Smokescreen’s behaviour may be, he is vigilant when he applies himself to observation of his own surroundings.  But I was still far from satisfied with his overall performance. “I am disappointed that you offlined at your post!” I said.

He looked at me with those very large, appealing optics he uses so often to manoeuvre from unwelcome situations; why, escapes me, as he knows that sort of manipulation will not wash with me. “I know what you’re thinkin’, Prowl,” he said. “But I ain’t hung over. It was just – _so cold_ in here. Hell, I went half into shutdown!”

This seemed like nonsense. There had been no thunder for a while, the storm evidently having moved on. True, such weather can cause fluctuations; but the heaters in medbay are efficient, and it was most certainly not cold when I came in. I put it down to more effects from his post indulgence status. Yet I noted then that there was moisture on the metal berthside cabinet. Condensation residue?

I was determined that my cousin would not see the effect of the iciness, the hopelessness which again engulfed my very being.

Red Alert’s voice broke in then, informing us that Bluestreak was at the door, the first clinic patient of the day.

“Keep medbay sealed, Red,” I said, turning my attention back to the task. “And cancel your clinic, Ratchet.” Then I dismissed Smokescreen and Brawn and proceeded to examine the wreckage further up the ward.

A few moments later, the Ark ‘all clear’ sounded. This was a little disappointing. I thought of the figure I thought I had seen slipping into the rain, and concluded that it was not unexpected. But it mattered not too much. For immediately I had seen on the floor – oh thank Primus for being merciful – the evidence I needed.

Among the spilled cupboard contents was a piece of tyre tread; not the type to be found on an ordinary tyre, but of such a shape and spaced in such a way, and with a particular consistency that could only be from one particular _type_ of tyre.

One with so called ‘caterpillar’ treads. And the rubber was purple.

Examination of the chair next to where the picture had fallen revealed a trace of green paint.

A comparison of Constructicon profiles to the print on the wall shows it to resemble the profile of the excavator member of their team.

Finally, on the floor, next to the berth, there was an indent. This had not been visible on the film. I concluded that it was consistent with having been struck with a large object. Such as – for instance - a shovel.

I believe, therefore the identity of the Decepticon Scavenger to be consistent with the evidence, and I record that I am satisfied with my theory that the Constructicons have somehow invented advanced technology electro disruption and have attempted to steal medical information.

I further believe that there is no need, at this stage, to examine the rest of the footage. It will show nothing conclusive. I believe Scavenger responsible for Huffer’s terrors as well as the damage in medbay.

Some mechs are sensitive, Mirage has reported others knowing of his presence at times, even when invisible, without a signature scan. Huffer can be reassured as soon as the evidence is able to be released.

I have ordered Ratchet to make a full inventory of medbay. I now await Jazz, with whom I will discuss  means of apprehending Scavenger on his next ‘visit,’  and dealing with the effects of any stolen data. When we have decided up a strategy, I will seek a meeting with Optimus Prime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Advance warning - the way I see story turning out - if the G1 canon character deaths are upsetting to you, then it may be wise to not read on after this chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter, linking chapter before we get on with the main action again.
> 
> Characters: Continues to be written as Prowl's journal, but has a number of other characters. In this chapter, Jazz.
> 
> Rating: PG
> 
> Warnings: Spooky stuff, and will encroach on canon character deaths. A bit of fluff, too.

 It was not even ten o'clock in the morning, when Jazz and I retired to the quarters we have taken to sharing.

I was anxious and agitated; so much was I wanting now to tell him about the events of the past few hours, about my cleverly crafted theory. Yet for all that, a small voice nagged, a harbinger of doubt and even ridicule. Was it really as credible as I liked to think? Or was it, really, not completely logical; an uncharacteristic leaping at shadows? Did I really believe myself when I said that hunches should be taken note of? Did this not fly in the face of everything I had always preached?

But I put all doubts down to the unease which still infused my circuits, the strange chill and inexplicable feeling of _not rightness._ This suspicion, this doubt that perhaps my theory wasn't so good after all, was also extremely 'un-me.' Did I not always stick to my guns once I had decided upon a probability, a course of action?

No – there could be no doubt. Scavenger had been among us.

But instead of bursting out with the news, I bided my time, listening to the sound of splashing water as Jazz washed off the results of his muddy expedition. And as I did so, I watched through the holoportal the vision which Hound had set up for us today - one of the concourse near the Iacon Dome in the Golden Age; a good choice, for as time went on, I grew steadily more determined that this discovery of mine, undeniably correct, was just one more step which would take us back to the days of that Dome, to where we truly belonged.

When Jazz had finished washing, he switched on the drier. And then, above its steady blast, he was chattering about the forest on the peninsula, about destroyed trees and churned up ground, and of what had appeared to be an abandoned Insecticon lair. As I continued to stare at the Dome, he went on and on; the empty holes, the paraphernalia scattered around, the obvious evidence of cloning experiments and apparent failure of the same.

It was, I must admit, quite fascinating stuff; and highly relevant to our mission on Earth. Ordinarily, I would doubtless have found it so, and engaged immediately in a discussion about what should be done. Instead, I confess to becoming increasingly irritated, as his discoveries – not to mention his sneakings around with Mirage – so obviously took precedent over my own predicament.

Which was equally ridiculous, as how could he, when I had so far said nothing?

"And what are you going to do if you _find_ these Insectoid mechanisms?" I snapped, hearing the dryer get turned off and then the whine as it slowly shut down. "The cloning evidence should have struck you as dangerous, Jazz. Have we not seen through history that wiping these creatures out is not a simple matter?"

Jazz came back into the room. He laughed. "Who said we were gonna wipe 'em out?" he said. "We ain't gonna do that! We wanna talk. Communicate. Find out what their motives are n'how close they're really allied to Megatron. One of 'em's taken a liking to Mirage. Reckon we might even get him onside."

Well, _that_ was not what I was expecting. At any other time I would have retorted loudly at the ridiculousness of such a suggestion, at its utter foolhardiness, not to mention my dissatisfaction that Mirage and Jazz were taking advantage of the freedom they had been given to pursue such an objective unbeknown to Optimus Prime.

As it was, I simply drew into myself on the berth and ran my hands over my face, despairing. Maybe Prime did know? In which case the fact that he had not told me was equally depressing.

Jazz sat down beside me. "What's up?" he asked.

"Oh now you ask!" I cried.

He did not have a chance to say more as at that moment, the room comm sounded out loud. Jazz rolled his optics. He dislikes that I tend to keep it in this mode; but as I have informed him on many occasions, should I need to be summoned, it is easier for this to occur.

"Prowl? This is Red Alert." The mech sounded nervous – hardly surprising, given what had occurred earlier, and my reactions. "Just reporting that – er – Huffer's fine now, he's been discharged from medbay. And - er - a reminder that I still need to show you the rest of the footage. Plus a couple of – er – new things."

Jazz look at me, puzzled "What footage?" he asked. "And what's that 'bout Huffer?"

…..

I told him everything. Starting with my 'awakening' the night before, and ending with the events in medbay just after Jazz and Mirage returned.

"So as you can see," I concluded, "there's a perfectly plausible explanation." I was pleased with the way I had presented the evidence to the seasoned detective, beginning with theory, then extrapolation of the facts. I had felt better as I proceeded, becoming more and more convinced that I was right, and had concluded with a succinct synopsis of what I now considered to undoubtedly be the case.

Despite my newfound confidence, I had not been completely convinced that I would sell the idea to Jazz straight away, or at least appear to do so. If not - I reassured myself - It was not necessarily that he would not buy it; more that often his analytical mind performs a 'devil's advocate' role, a function necessary to test and solidify the theories of others. But to my dismay, he did not even this. No, on the contrary - he hardly seemed interested at all.

Instead he looked puzzled. He scratched at his chin, his optics staring in the direction of the holoport, yet obviously not seeing the changing scene, the view of the High Court at Praxus to which we were now entertained.

"Well?" I said, aware of a note of anxious impatience entering my vocalizer. "It's obvious we need to speak to Prime straight away and set a trap."

When he did not answer, my spirits fell. For I took this to mean that he _had_ dismissed the idea out of hand. The feelings of dread returned, bringing with them the awful suspicion - even though there really was no reason - that I was not right after all.

But I refused to give in. "It is not so ridiculous!" I cried. "No more so than your trying to ally with … with a bunch of bugs!"

I know it is not politically correct to refer to Insecticons in that way. And as a stickler for political correctness, I should have known better. But it occurred to me then that Jazz was, perhaps, so wrapped up in his own agenda that he simply did not have time to consider mine properly. I was filled with a great need to make him take notice, to _see_ that there were things going on; that it was not insurmountable, and that with a little cooperation this could all be cleared up once and for all. Surely that was not too much to ask?

But it wasn't that he was taking no notice. He just seemed to be thinking of something different altogether.

"This footage," he said. "There's more of it?"

"Yes," I said, "But as you heard me inform Red Alert, I will view it in due course." For I had made it clear there were more pressing things to attend to than looking at what I was certain would only be further evidence of the same. And whilst this would be useful for strengthening the case against Scavenger, the point was not now proving my theory. The point was to do something about it.

"It is vital that we stop these Constructicons before they learn enough about our schematics to make any further attempt at open conflict a waste of time!" I said.

Jazz got up slowly and walked to the holoportal, where he stared at the well loved, well remembered buildings of the Praxan administrative complex.

"Funnily enough," he said after a long pause, "I don't think the Structies are unconnected. But it ain't in the way you think."

The way he said it! It was as though a hand reached in and clutched at my spark, sending out a flash of such dead cold that my circuits froze instantly. I almost whimpered. _Why_ did he have to say that? When I so wanted him to say - maybe after a little further pushing of the evidence - _all right! Let's get to it, and start talking strategy._

I recovered a little. But still I reeled as I stared at his black and white back. This was so _unJazzlike._ So mysterious and closed, almost as though he had glimpsed another realm, where possibilities lay that were hidden from me. "How?" I gasped. My voice sounded hollow, hoarse and fraught with trepidation. Like a new recruit assigned to his first case who's still trying to work out if he even went into the right profession, let alone is on the right track, and doesn't really understand what he's meant to do at all.

He snorted, slightly. "I ain't sure." I looked now for signs of lightheartedness, that maybe this was his idea of a joke. But he was perfectly serious. The coldness struck again. "Either way, I reckon I ougthha see the stuff y'just told me about, an' medbay. Then …" he turned back to me. "Reckon we oughtta look at the new stuff too."

Panic was rising, suffocating as it pushed upwards, threatening to take me over. My carefully crafted theory seemed to shatter before my optics, the fragments scattering to be replaced by … _I knew not what._ Only that it was something horrible, something to which the Scavenger theory was so vastly preferable that I would have given anything for that to be true, for Jazz to have endorsed it, even if only half-sparkedly.

"I said there's no need! It will add nothing, to what I already have …." But I sounded weak, pathetic – almost hysterical. And now, a small voice mocked, reproachful. Of course there was a need. Since when did I ever execute action on a case without first reviewing all the evidence? A little sensibility returned. What did I so much not want to see? Whatever it was, it surely could not replace duty.

My 'state' was obviously not unapparent to Jazz. He came and sat down, and then his warmth was against me, his hand patting my arm, solid and comforting.

"Ain't do no good to deny the future, Prowl," he said. "Some folks say it's better not to know. Prob'ly they're right. But ain't nothin' you can do if some power higher than ourselves decides to show us now is there?'

 _What was this?_ This was not the Jazz I knew! He sounded sad and tired, old even – and I had _no idea_ what he meant. Yet the very words carved a terrible sadness into my spark, to mingle with the echoes of my previous terror and despair. I thought for the first time, how long had we had lain inert in that mountain, so long without each other. Who knew when that might be the case – forever.

And whilst, logically, I may have concluded that such speculation had nothing, whatsoever, to do with current circumstances, I was filled with the terrible knowledge that yes - of course - it was.

"S'times they give y'bit longer t'say goodbye," Jazz whispered. And then, I knew.

Devastation does not even describe it. I could not even reply.

"On th' oher hand," he stood up again. "Can't do nothin' about what's in store if you don't know 'bout it,can ya? I happen to be a great believer in changin' destiny, Prowl, as you oughtta know …" He was on his feet again. He leaned over, and next I was kissed firmly on the lips. "How long have y'know me? When did I ever fail t'work out th'answer t' somethin' important?"

He grinned. And the old Jazz was back; confident, and full of promise that everything would be all right. It was only then that I thought of how knowledgeable Jazz must be in matters which might be said to be beyond this realm, that he had, of course, once been a trainee priest in Simpurr. It seemed, suddenly, that I had ignored this aspect of my lover, perhaps not wanted to see it, any more than I wanted to acknowledge whatever reality was with this now; yet never had it seemed more important.

"C'mon," he said. "Lets go look together. Then I can tell ya what I really think oughtta be done."

He was already walking through the door. And I could do nothing but follow him, needing him more than I had ever needed anyone right then, trusting in him to find the answers in the way only Jazz could; and yet never having felt inside a more sickening pit, a greater dread of what may lie in store.


End file.
